


'tis of centuries come and go

by OldShrewsburyian



Series: Time's a strange fellow [3]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: American History, Banter, Bechdel Test Pass, Developing Friendships, Epic Friendship, Everyone Is Alive, Female Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Human Disaster Garcia Flynn, Light Angst, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nerdiness, No One Deserves Rufus, No Sex, POV Third Person Omniscient, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Finale, Post-Season/Series 02, Some Humor, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-23 04:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Time Team adventures! This is set after s2, featuring several episodes with lightly-sketched historical background. It testifies to my deep desire for Flynn and Wyatt to form an unlikely friendship, and my deep love for these characters individually and as a group. It started out fluffy and fun and became... less so. This is tagged for the romantic relationships (or, in the case of the historian and her assassin, more or less inarticulate interests) indicated, but focuses mostly on the love(s) between friends.Wyatt and Rufus take bets on how many opponents it would, in fact, take to stop Garcia Flynn in his tracks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by e.e. cummings, which I think is very apposite for _Timeless_ :
> 
> "next to of course god america i  
> love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh  
> say can you see by the dawn's early my  
> country 'tis of centuries come and go  
> and are no more what of it we should worry  
> in every language even deafanddumb  
> thy sons acclaim thy glorious name by gorry  
> by jingo by gee by gosh by gum  
> why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-  
> iful than these heroic happy dead  
> who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter  
> they did not stop to think they died instead  
> then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"
> 
> He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water."

Wyatt and Rufus take bets on how many opponents it would, in fact, take to stop Garcia Flynn in his tracks. Wyatt loses his bet of 4 in 1765. The three men flee side by side through the dense night of Massachusetts, listening for the hue and cry that does not come. 

“We thought you weren’t coming,” pants Wyatt, when they’ve slowed to listen for pursuit.

“I was staging a brawl,” says Flynn, without looking at him.

“You were what?” says Rufus. “You aren’t prepping this for a PBS special.”

Flynn takes a deep breath, leads them up an invisible track. “On the contrary, that is exactly what we are doing. If the Stamp Act is going to be repealed, it needs to be very clear who takes the blame for tonight. Hence the need to kill them all.” 

Rufus steals a look at Wyatt, but the former soldier looks profoundly unsurprised. Despite having lost his bet, he doesn’t even look that disappointed. They collect Lucy from her irreproachable boarding house, and return to the Lifeboat. Denise reproaches Flynn for ruining yet another jacket — apparently bayonet gashes are hard to repair — and he replies drily that while a gunshot may go anywhere, steel almost has to go somewhere. 

“Fair point,” says Wyatt, and appears to have astonished himself no less than everyone else by agreeing with Flynn on any point at all. The Stamp Act is repealed in 1766. 

***

Rufus loses his bet in 1871. “Holy shit,” he gasps, from the back of a cart that seems disturbingly likely to fly into pieces if Flynn keeps the horses at their current pace. “I am always getting the ‘I Voted’ sticker from now on.”

“Awesome,” says Wyatt grimly, still sighting down the road for any evidence that they’re being followed. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, you know,” says Rufus. “Just another day being black in America.”

Flynn makes a repressive noise from the driver’s seat, and they are silent for the rest of their headlong journey. 

They pick up their historian in Charleston. “Lucy?”

“Flynn’s right,” says Wyatt promptly. “You’re looking way too pleased with yourself. Did you steal a manuscript?”

“I would never!” Wyatt holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “But I talked to some people at the Freedmen’s Bureau. I… may have given them advice while pretending my husband was a lawyer. Not that clear legal strategies and arguments based on sustainable landholding practice will change Congress’ mind next year, necessarily.”

“Guess some things never change,” remarks Wyatt.

“Can I just say,” remarks Rufus, as he is firing up the Lifeboat, “that beating up racists was so satisfying that I’m barely mad about losing my bet?”

“Bet?” says Flynn, and they are obliged to explain. “Absurd,” he says, when they have done so. No less to their astonishment than to their relief, he half-chuckles. And then, appraisingly, he looks at Lucy.

“I refused to bet,” she says primly.

“Because you’re a spoilsport,” teases Wyatt.

“Can’t I bet on survival?” 

“You can’t make your bet _now_ ,” says Rufus. Flynn solemnly avers that he agrees on principle. By the time they’re back in 2018 they’re all happily arguing. 

“What did you _do_?” demands Jiya, when they disembark. She already has her arm hooked through Rufus’. The travelers survey themselves.

“Believe it or not,” says Flynn, “we were stopping a riot this time.”

“When did Reconstruction end?” asks Lucy.

“1877.”

“Good. I mean, not good, but the same — we kept it afloat at least. And the Freedmen’s Bureau?”

“1872.”

She sighs. “It was worth a shot.”

“Did you,” asks Mason, “by any chance steal a cart?” They turn as one to look at him. “There is a folk tradition of the Devil himself driving his team through the streets of Charleston. The righteous are able to make a deal with him, strangely enough, in order to escape the hellish circumstances they’re already in. It’s a fascinating bit of social commentary, to say nothing of social history — inspired several songs.”

“I’m sure,” says Wyatt. “You know,” he adds, surveying Flynn, “I can see the resemblance.”

Lucy smirks up at Flynn. “If you’re trying to look abashed,” she informs him, “it’s not working.” Flynn coughs, but looks no less self-satisfied. 

Jiya doesn’t let Rufus out of her sight for three days.


	2. Chapter 2

Lucy almost loses her bet as a result of the Whiskey Rebellion. 

“I’ve driven through this part of Pennsylvania,” says Wyatt. “I just didn’t know they _always_ felt this way about taxes." 

“Yeah,” says Lucy. “But at least now they don’t ask for guillotines.”

“They probably have more ammo, though.”

“True.”

“Guillotines?” says Rufus.

“You can explain the influence of the French Revolution while we’re gone,” says Flynn. “Wyatt? Let’s play cards.”

“I will never look at historical reports of tavern brawls the same way again,” grumbles Wyatt, but he follows with comparative meekness.

“You really think having both soldiers gone is a good idea?”

Lucy sighs. “It’s necessary. Wyatt knows how soldiers talk — how they think. Adjusted for century, of course, but he has the right instincts. Besides, he looks less threatening than Flynn."

“Fair.”

"And," continues Lucy grimly, "we really, really need to make sure that no one in that encampment decides it's a good idea to take a pot shot at the militia before Washington can start peace negotiations.” It seems a long wait.

“I wish this _were_ part of Pittsburgh,” says Rufus eventually. “We could get a beer. And there might be fewer gnats.” Then a shot rings out, and they both strain their eyes to see through eighteenth-century darkness. 

Wyatt materializes, moving at the run. He grabs their hands in passing; he does not even whisper an exhortation. It’s an awkward business, getting into their coracle — Lucy tumbles into the back, and Rufus barks his shin — but they manage it.

“Flynn?” says Lucy, but Wyatt is already casting off.

“In the river,” says Wyatt. “There.” The noise of a body hitting the water is clean, decisive, like a fore-echo of the shots.

“He — ” begins Lucy.

“Was seen. If they see us, we’re out for a spot of semi-legal fishing. We know absolutely nothing about the dangerous assassin who happens to be swimming for his freedom. We pull up downriver.”

“So now what?” says Rufus, when they’ve moored the boat. “We send him a pin of our location?” Wordlessly, Wyatt points to the bent tree above them.

Lucy clutches at Rufus’ arm in relief. “It’s a trail marker,” she breathes. “Native American tribes used them — it’s a trail marker.” Upriver, the noise begins to die down. Torches sway and dip in the summer night, their light mirrored in the obsidian surface of the water. Lucy shivers convulsively. 

“There,” says Wyatt suddenly, and steps into the water as though he really were on a fishing trip, bracing his legs to haul in an invisible net. He stands rock steady, reaches out, and straightens with his hand buried in Flynn’s collar. Once they are both on shore, the taller of the two men stays on hands and knees for what seems to Lucy an achingly long time, coughing up river water at intervals. Wyatt thumps him methodically on the back. 

“Not to interrupt the male bonding,” says Rufus, “but we should really get going.” Flynn manages an approximation of a nod, Wyatt pulls him to his feet, and they move out.

***

“We need some Febreze for the Lifeboat,” says Rufus to Mason, climbing out into the bunker. “That, or for no one to fall into an eighteenth-century river ever again. Preferably both.”

“But we did get both sleeper agents,” supplies Wyatt.

Denise looks at Flynn, and simply shakes her head. “I’d love it if you could manage _not_ to ruin a suit, but I won’t hold my breath.”

“Whiskey Rebellion?” says Lucy.

“Quelled by George Washington, apparently partly by wearing an awesome coat?” Jiya arches an eyebrow.

“No,” says Lucy. “I mean yes, but the bit about how it proved that the elected officials of the federal government could levy taxes for the common good.”

“I know people who would embrace turning taxable goods into alcohol as a loophole,” observes Wyatt, to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” says Jiya, “that’s the one. Mission accomplished?”

Lucy grins. “Mission accomplished.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a week later that Wyatt finds Flynn on the bathroom floor, his toothbrush in the sink, the tap still running.

“I’m fine,” says Flynn, coming around. His movements are uncoordinated enough that Wyatt can avoid the attempts to ward him off fairly easily.

“Yeah,” says Wyatt, “clearly. I pass out while brushing my teeth on the regular.” He has managed to get the other man’s arm around his shoulders (he has to remind himself that he can take his time, that they are not under fire, that he can afford to find a good foothold before getting them both up.)

“Wyatt — ”

“Shut up. One, two, three — Jesus, you’re tall!” concludes Wyatt, staggering.

“Fascinating.”

“Don’t be an asshole. No, that’s too much to ask, I know. Temporarily refrain from being an asshole — preferably until I get you back to bed.” Wyatt reaches to turn off the tap with his free hand.

“Wyatt,” says Flynn again, when they are a few paces down the hall.

“Shut — ”

“Thank you.”

Wyatt is too taken aback by this to make any rejoinder until he has deposited Flynn, somewhat unceremoniously, on his cot. “Don’t mention it,” he says, slightly breathlessly. “And don’t worry, I’m not going to put my hand to your brow or anything. I can tell you have a fever from here.”

Flynn’s eyes are closing. “Burn itself out,” he mutters.

“Because that strategy’s working so well for you,” retorts Wyatt. “I’m notifying Agent Christopher, just so you know.” He turns on his heel without waiting for argument.

“Ma’am?” Both Denise and Lucy turn to look at him, albeit with very different expressions on their faces. “Don’t worry, Lucy, I wouldn’t do that to you. Ma’am, could I have a word?”

After a moment’s stillness, Denise gathers that this means a private word, and rises. 

“Sergeant?” He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Wyatt? If this is about Jessica, I’m sorry, but — ”

“No,” says Wyatt abruptly, because even their immediate problem is preferable to her continuing with that line of questioning. “No, it’s Flynn.” Denise arches one flawlessly-maintained eyebrow. “He’s down with fever,” says Wyatt tersely; “I found him passed out this morning.”

“You what?”

“Yeah. I haven’t had any symptoms, and we only drank spirits with the soldiers, so…”

“The river,” sighs Denise. “Right. I’ll call our medic. Tell everyone to wash all the dishes. And disinfect the countertops while you’re at it.”

It is midmorning when she gathers them, faintly soapy and resentful, in the common room. They all obediently chorus that no, they haven’t experienced any fever; no, haven’t noticed any rash; haven’t experienced abdominal pain or headaches or…

“What’s this about?” asks Jiya.

“It’s about making sure we have antibiotics for everyone who needs them,” says Denise crisply. “He swears he hasn’t used the dishes; I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by how stubborn that man can be.” (Flynn’s actual response to her question about hygiene and food preparation had been “You can’t think I’d _risk_ them?” but that, she decides, would be good for no one’s emotional equilibrium.)

“Are we…” begins Rufus, and starts over. “It isn’t cholera, or…”

“If it were cholera,” says Denise grimly, “we would all be out of here and he would be in a separate facility.” ( _Or dead_ ; but that line of thought would do no one any good either.) “No,” says Denise aloud, “it’s typhoid, which turns out to be mercifully non-transferable — except by contaminated food or water.”

“Right,” says Rufus. No one appears particularly consoled by this.

“That’s all,” says Denise. “The incubation period is variable. Use your own dishes, and notify me if you experience any symptoms. We hope for the best.”

“Comforting,” mutters Rufus under his breath, and she pretends not to hear him.

“Tell me you’re not going on WebMD,” says Jiya, when Denise has left the room.

“World Health Organization,” retorts Rufus, fingers busily scrolling. “Not that that’s much of an improvement. Apparently the vaccine just… doesn’t work in like 30% of cases? Recommended treatment: antibiotics and saline solution.” He shakes his head. “Modern medicine is weird. Luckily, this is one of the old-timey diseases that _doesn’t_ involve bodily fluids everywhere, because I’m not sure we would survive that. Internal bleeding and death…” Jiya kicks him sharply in the shin. “Are rare,” concludes Rufus abruptly, looking at Lucy’s face. “They’re rare.”

“I guess it was only a matter of time until one of us got taken down by a germ,” says Wyatt. He’s trying for cheerful resolve, but his voice isn’t as steady as he’d like it to be. “Right, Lucy? Guns, germs, and steel?”

“That’s a terribly overrated book,” says Lucy, but she doesn’t sound as though her heart is in it.


	4. Chapter 4

Their equipment, for the next few days, is strangely quiet. No one wonders aloud about what Rittenhouse might be gearing up to do next. By common consensus they all — including Mason — take it in turns to sit with Flynn. (The chair starts out at a recommended six feet from the bed; it migrates within the first twelve hours.) Their habits are revealed to them through absence. Jiya’s _Star Trek_ novel lies unread on a table, instead of turning up in a series of unexpected places. The running scoresheet of Wyatt and Rufus’ card games is unaltered. Without Lucy’s semi-tuneful humming, the mechanical noises of the bunker play against each other in ominous counterpoint.

On the first night, Rufus discovers Mason reciting Shakespeare from memory, strangely at his ease in Flynn’s chair.

On the second night, Wyatt discovers that straight-up _ordering_ a delirious former soldier to take antibiotics actually works. He hadn’t dared to expect it.

On the third night, Jiya emerges into the common room to find Lucy sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, arms drawn around her knees. Jiya sighs. Even if it weren’t a space where everyone knew where everyone else was, it would be impossible to leave Lucy looking like that.

“Hey, Lacey.”

Lucy looks up, briefly. “Hey, Cagney.”

Jiya gets the glass of water that formed her original object; she gets another one for Lucy, and returns to the couch. “You want to talk about it?”

Lucy breathes out shakily. “What is there to talk about? We sit here, and we wait for Rittenhouse’s next move, and we listen to our — our friend fighting old wars in his sleep, and there is nothing we can do.”

“We’re staying with him,” says Jiya simply. “That’s not… that’s not _nothing._ Especially for him, I think.”

“Yeah,” says Lucy; “yeah.”

After a few moments’ silence, Jiya says: “It’s not the wars I mind so much, actually. The — the names he calls out, are they…?”

“His family. Yeah.”

Jiya swallows, bites her lip. “I don’t want to know what happened to them, do I?”

“Nope.” Silence descends again. Beneath the noise of the ventilation fans, a clock incongruously ticks. “Jiya, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to live normally after this?”

“Define ‘normal’! Okay, okay — ” Jiya holds up a hand — “I know what you meant. Serious question. I know.” She expels a long breath. “Probably not. Probably _definitely_ not. But I’m not sure that’s the worst thing. Before this, I was wondering whether being the best would ever be enough for me — woman in tech, second-generation immigrant, first-generation college. Now, I work with cutting-edge technology every day; I help to shape the future every day. True,” she says, answering Lucy’s look, “in a nuclear bunker. With weird visions that are like something straight out of Greek mythology. But I have this. I have you. I have the sweetest boyfriend in the world.” Jiya grins. “And yeah, when we get out of here I want customized business cards and a big, cheesy wedding and… and all that fantasy-normal stuff. But for now…” She shrugs. “Everyone spends a few years in a weird apartment with random roommates in their 20s, right? I just spent mine in the 1880s. And now I’m back here, with… do we have a name for ourselves? What do you call a hippie commune, but with spies?”

Lucy smiles weakly. “Ask Wyatt. Or Mason; he’s good at naming things.”

“Yeah.” After a moment, Jiya adds: “I know you were… more settled. In your work and everything.” She doesn’t really think that’s what has Lucy looking as though she might shatter at a touch, but it’s something.

Lucy laughs: a bitter, mirthless noise. “Yeah. ‘Settled’ as a nepotistic hire at a cutthroat institution where the fossil in charge of my department was just _looking_ for an excuse to get me out and replace me with someone more docile or more male or more trendy — preferably all of the above.”

“Whoa,” says Jiya. “Right. Okay.”

“Sorry,” says Lucy quickly. “And you’re right. I was settled. But I was also trapped.”

“And now?” asks Jiya, very softly.

“And now,” says Lucy, “instead of having to defend my work to funding committees who want me to prove relevance, I have to use it to save the world.” She grimaces wryly. 

“And?” prompts Jiya.

“And you’re like family, and I would miss Wyatt like a limb, and I love Rufus like a brother, and I — and Flynn — ” Jiya waits, but Lucy doesn’t finish the sentence. She buries her head in her arms, and Jiya reaches, very tentatively, to rest a hand between her shoulder-blades. They are still sitting like that when the alarm goes off, telling them that the Mothership has jumped.

Rufus comes running from Flynn’s room rubbing sleep from his eyes. Wyatt, pulling a shirt over his head, is heard to mumble something like “…enough that they’re evil masterminds… hours like normal people?”

“Lucy,” says Jiya, from the console, “what happened in Georgia in September 1822?”

Lucy takes a deep breath. “Nothing good.”

“Is it too much to hope that we get to take out Andrew Jackson?” It is Wyatt who asks the question, and Lucy glances sharply at him in surprise. “Yeah, famous general, whatever. Soldiers _invent_ adjectives for guys like that.”

“Good to know,” says Lucy. “But no — he’s been nominated for the Presidency, but he’s still nursing his health in Nashville.”

“So what are we doing?” asks Rufus. “And can I at least be a freedman?” 

“You could be an artisan,” says Lucy, her tone grim. “Maybe even a man of business. For once, you’re not going to be their primary target. The Government has started clearing Cherokees off their land.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to the Stanford history department, which does not deserve Lucy's characterization of it, but in the show's timeline (where nepotistic hires at elite research institutions appear to be a thing) it seems to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toyed (or, more accurately, wrestled) with the idea of having a chapter devoted to the Time Team's 1822 mission, but I think it would have to be a fic of its own, with considerably more research devoted to it than I currently have time for. Oblique reference is made to Cherokee laws imagined as similar to -- but more ultimately effective than -- this one: http://www.cherokee.org/About-The-Nation/History/Trail-of-Tears/A-Cherokee-Law-from-1822. Lucy's dress, in case anyone was wondering, looks like this: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/82085.

The mood is somber when they return to the Lifeboat. “Surprise!” says Rufus, as the machine whirrs to life under his touch. “America is racist.”

Lucy scrubs her hands over her face. “There’s — there’s just so much history that’s been erased, it’s so hard to know who we really should have been talking to, how the signatories of the Cherokee laws got there, what swayed them…”

“Hey,” says Wyatt. “Hey. You’re not singlehandedly responsible. And maybe we’ll get lucky — maybe we’ll get back to a history with slightly less genocide.”

“There you go,” says Rufus. “Sometimes you have to take the win.”

Lucy stumbles out of the Lifeboat feeling even more hollowed-out than usual. Something within her wants to howl like a child that it is simply too much, too much to be expected to navigate dozens of different worlds, each with potentially fatal challenges. It is too much to live uncertain of the past, as well as the future. And it is too much to face losing the people closest to her, over and over again. 

“I’ve put the kettle on,” says Mason, from what seems a long way off. “You all look knackered.”

“Whatever that word means,” says Rufus, “yes, I am. History is depressing sometimes. Do we still have a Trail of Tears?”

Jiya is busy at the console. “We do. ‘Some members of the tribe managed, however, through legal action and through pacts with settler communities, to place themselves beyond the reach of the nascent republic’s increasingly rapacious government…’ Sorry, this book is ancient, apparently. Maybe you made some people’s lives less awful?”

Wyatt finishes a bone-cracking yawn. “Hey,” he says, “if so, mission accomplished. And we got to take out a couple of Rittenhouse guys. No sign of Emma or… No sign of them.”

Lucy tries not to jump when Jiya touches her on the arm. “He’s quieter,” says the younger woman. “Hopefully that’s a good thing?”

“Help me out of my dress?” asks Lucy, by way of response. Jiya follows her; the kettle wails. 

Her own clothes, these days, hardly feel like less of a costume. But she’s at least slightly more comfortable when she goes to Flynn’s room. She’d trust any of them with her life, of course; but it is he who has most often been at her side when he hasn’t had to be. The least she can do is return the favor. Drawing her legs up under her in his chair, she forces herself to take stock of the circles like bruises under his eyes, the shadows under his cheekbones that are like a reflection from the purplish rash on his skin. She closes her eyes because it hurts to look at him — and that is her last conscious thought.

She wakes up stiff and cramped, with the fluorescent lamp still burning overhead. Flynn makes a sound that she tries not to think of as a moan. She wonders if that’s what woke her. 

“I’m here,” she says softly, in case it might help. “Your favorite fellow-genius.” It is strange to see him restless, who is usually so controlled in movement; strange to see him vulnerable, yet still withdrawn from her. The sheen of perspiration on his face makes him look, if anything, even more forlorn, but if it means the fever has broken, even temporarily… Lucy stands and stretches, hoping to distract herself from the dangerous desire to touch him.

The first time she sees a muscle spasm under his eyelid, she writes it off as something involuntary, pained. It seems a very long five minutes while she waits, watches, wonders what he is seeing, or trying not to see. Eventually, she decides that even if he can’t seem to keep his eyes open, he’s definitely awake. She catches herself holding her breath. She tells herself it should not be hard to _speak_ to the man, to decide what to say, to give herself permission to declare herself, here within his space, and he powerless.

“Hey,” she says. “You’re safe.”

It takes the length of a long, shuddering breath for him to look at her, a desperate attempt at focus under half-lowered lids, his head angled strangely on the pillow. “Lucy.” Her name emerges without sound, and yet unmistakable.

She’s on her feet without thinking about it, taking the cup with its horrid straw, holding it out for him. She nearly walks into the stand for the saline drip, but what dizzies her is the sudden memory of doing the same thing for her mother, in the time before all this happened, in the timeline where the worst grief was a long death with a pile of Snickers on the bedside table, where she didn’t have to face the fact that rage was her mother’s only benediction.

“Lucy?” says Flynn, hoarse and urgent. “Are you all right?”

“Oh!” This time she does kick the saline drip; hastily she replaces the cup on the table. “Sorry.” She thinks that someday she may actually choke on the tenderness that threatens to stifle her. “I,” she says, with some emphasis, “am fine.” _Just overtired, and overwhelmed, and aching with relief._ She stares pointedly at the wall behind him, her arms crossed over herself. She is afraid that seeing the expression on his face might make her burst into tears.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. It comes out as a whisper. “I… I was frightened. We all were,” she adds, and tells herself that saying so is an act of honesty and not of cowardice.

“Lucy?” She goes rigid, waiting for his next question. “Is it that bad?” asks Flynn, and astonishingly, there is something like amusement in his tone.

She gasps for breath as though breaking the surface of water. “No,” says Lucy, and she goes to her knees beside the bed because it is as close as she can get to him, because she wants to look him in the eye. “No, no.” She forces another breath. “You’re fine. We’re fine. You’re safe. We’re all safe.” She finds she does not have to force a smile. "You'll be fine."

“No one else?” 

“No, no one else got sick. We missed you in 1822.”

“Mm.” For several minutes there is silence between them. She tells herself that he is a wreck and she is sleep-deprived and he _smells_ , for god’s sake, and she should definitely not be in the least tempted to kiss the sharp and terrible lines of his bones, mapping the contours of his survival. Then Flynn says, very softly: “Lucy?”

“Yes?”

“You won your bet.”

**Author's Note:**

> One of the fun things about writing for _Timeless_ is the way the show's premise opens up multiple future possibilities. From here, you can either proceed to a conclusion of this arc in which the Time Team saves the world (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872149) or onwards to Debriefing, in which everyone lives and no one dies.


End file.
